To Know You
by the ramblin rose
Summary: Mandrea AU. Oneshot. Based off a Tumblr prompt. He'd rather know her than himself. Rated for some language.


**AN: This is just a little one shot for fun. From a tumblr prompt about choosing an AU situation and a couple.**

 **I got Mandrea and amnesia. Though it's probably not accurate, it's simply meant for a little entertainment. That's all.**

 **As always, I own nothing from the Walking Dead.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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Thump. Thump. Thump.

It was the rhythmic beating of a tribal drum. Except this sound was coming from inside. And it wasn't a sound. It was a feeling. The feeling was inside and now, as he was waking, he realized it was less like a drum and more like a heartbeat.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

But it wasn't a heartbeat. It was a brainbeat. His brain was throbbing. His head was throbbing. He opened his eyes and stared up at white. Nothing but white. Everything was blank. There was nothing left.

Maybe he was dead.

There was a low sound—a growl or a mewl—and only as the sound grew a little louder did he realize that it too was coming from inside his head. He was making the sound as a knee jerk reaction to the dull pain that was becoming less dull with every passing second.

It was a fucking bad show of things when you could be dead and still have a throbbing ass headache.

There was another sound, though he still didn't feel like he could see anything beyond the white and the brightness around him. It was the scurrying about of something—a mouse. A squeaking. A mouse—scurrying and squeaking.

But then she appeared.

And despite the real pisser that death came with pain, something that seemed entirely outside of everything he thought he knew about death—though he wasn't really sure how much he knew about it all—he was happy to be dead.

Because the angel looming over him? Blonde hair and green eyes and a sweet smile? She was worth the death that he'd suffered—even if he wasn't even sure anymore what the death he'd suffered had been like.

Maybe that was part of death too.

When his angel spoke, though, her soft voice didn't say anything that he might have attributed to angelic speech.

"You're finally awake," she said. "Welcome back. I'm guessing it wasn't in your plans to have head trauma today?"

She laughed lightly at that. Maybe that's how he'd died. His damn guardian angel was pleased as punch at his demise. But damn if she wasn't gorgeous when she laughed. It was worth it. He was pretty sure of that.

When her cool hands touched his face, though, and he felt the sharp sting of her harassing some injury—more than likely brought about by trauma that she'd mentioned—he realized that he probably wasn't dead.

He looked around then, daring to move his head. The white was the walls. The white was the ceiling. It was the outfit she wore. The color of her skin and the white of her teeth, but beyond her? It wasn't heavenly at all. The light was light from an over bright bulb and the light from a window.

He started, jumping as he slowly came into his reality, and she caught his shoulders, pushing him back gently and bringing herself closer to him.

She smelled intoxicating—she smelled as good as she looked. Her warm breath, contrasted against the cool of the room, even smelled clean and fresh.

He wasn't dead, but he still thought it would be difficult to believe that she wasn't an angel.

"Not yet," she said. "You had a pretty bad... _accident._ Can you answer a few questions for me?"

The sound returned from earlier, but this time he knew that he was the one making it. She smiled.

"Easy ones," she said. "First—how's your pain?"

He tried to swallow. Now that he knew he wasn't dead, he was aware that his throat felt dry and parched. But suddenly? The angel offered him just what he was seeking. Cool water brought to his mouth by a straw placed at his lips. He drank it down, thinking that it tasted remarkably sweet—thinking he'd like to know how sweet her lips tasted. And then she repeated her question.

"Thumping," he said. "Throbbing. Head."

She nodded.

"I'll get you a little something more for it," she said. "You'll have a headache for a little while. Do you have pain anywhere else?"

He shook his head from side to side. He didn't think he had pain anywhere else. If he did, he didn't feel it—which means it wasn't too much of a significant kind of pain.

"Do you know what happened to you?" His angel asked.

He thought about it a moment. Did he know what happened to him? For a moment? He hadn't been positive whether he was alive or dead. Honestly, he still wasn't sure.

He shook his head gently from side to side and she looked disappointed.

He wanted so badly for her not to look disappointed. He wanted to see the smile again. It was much more beautiful.

"What happened?" He asked.

She shook her head.

"We're not sure," she said. "It was an accident, but we're not really sure if anyone else was involved."

He hummed.

"Another easy one," she said. "Do you know—what your name is?"

That was an easy question. Of course he knew what his name was. Everyone knew their own name. It was the first damn thing they knew. It was the one thing they always kept with them. Maybe, even when they were dead, it was something they had.

Except, easy as it was, when he thought about it, he couldn't recall it. It felt like it was there. It felt like it was on the tip of his tongue, but it just wouldn't come out.

He shook his head from side to side.

"You don't remember your name?" She asked.

He felt oddly embarrassed at the thought of it. Then he chuckled to himself, the sound making the throbbing renew through his head with more intensity than it had before.

"Much rather know yours," he said.

She smiled at him.

"You tell me yours, and I'll tell you mine," she challenged, cocking an eyebrow at him.

He chuckled, catching her humor and struggled to swallow again. She offered him more water in the same way as before. It didn't taste as great this time. And now he was becoming aware of more pain.

"Hurtin' more," he said. "My—arms...back...leg."

"You were in a motorcycle accident," the angel said. "You were alone at the scene. We're trying to find out what happened. We're trying to find out if you were alone or if there was another vehicle involved. Do you remember anything now?"

"I have a motorcycle?" He asked, genuinely surprised by the revelation of how he'd ended up here—possibly dead.

She sighed, but she did smile again.

"Had one," she said. "I didn't see it, but your injuries suggest that it might not be in the best shape ever."

He hummed.

It was no great loss. Losing a motorcycle you didn't know you had, moments after you discovered its existence wasn't anything that caused too much pain.

"You still don't remember your name?" The angel asked.

He shook his head again and smiled.

"But I still wanna know yours," he said.

She smiled again.

"Your name is Merle Dixon," she said. "You were, at least, carrying identification in your wallet."

"Am I rich?" He asked.

She smiled.

"That depends on your definition of it," she teased.

"Rich enough to buy dinner?" He asked.

She smiled.

"Yeah," she said.

"For you?" He asked.

She frowned slightly.

"Angels don't eat?" He asked.

She raised her eyebrows at him. He chuckled. Slowly, slowly—as slowly as anything else before—he was coming into himself. At least, he was starting to figure out more bits and pieces about what was happening around him. He knew the woman—the beautiful woman who smelled sweet and blinded him almost as much as the lights in the ceiling did—wasn't an angel. She was a doctor, or a nurse, and he knew that she was caring for him—after a motorcycle accident that he had, either alone or with someone else that wasn't here.

"You didn't tell me your name," he said.

She sighed.

"Dr. Andrea Harrison," she said. "You're coming around. The amnesia? It's temporary Mr. Dixon. At least—we're pretty sure it's temporary. Why don't you tell me everything you remember?"

He hummed.

Merle patted the bed beside him.

"Take a load off," he said.

She rolled her eyes to the side like she was considering it, but when he patted the bed again, she did perch on the side, though she kept enough distance between them it was almost humorous.

He pretended he had a good deal to tell her. The truth, though, was that he didn't really remember too much—if he remembered anything at all beyond what she'd told him. He just wanted to get the angel—Andrea—a touch closer to him before the time came for her to fly away from him.

"Mr. Dixon?" She asked, trying to prompt him.

"Don't rush me," he said with a chuckle that didn't help his head. "I—uh—I'm Merle?" She nodded. "I have a motorcycle. Had a motorcycle. Was in a crash. Died."

He smiled when her expression changed.

"But I didn't really die. Woke up in heaven—that weren't really heaven. Found me an angel," Merle said. "But soon as I found her? Found out she was—fallen."

She stared at him.

He chuckled again and shook his head.

"I don't remember," he said. "No more'n that—An-drea."

She stood up abruptly. Then she offered him another smile.

"We've found your brother," she said. "He's been contacted. I'm sure he'll be here soon. I'll order you something more for pain and we'll check on you. You just rest for now. Your memory should return, before too long, but a nurse will be around to check on you again soon."

Merle moved a hand, reached for her, and immediately became aware of a much more searing pain that accompanied any movement of the hand. He grit his teeth, though. Something made him feel like he was accustomed to dealing with pain, though he wasn't sure why.

Whatever the reason, it was worth it to power through for just a second. He touched the arm of the arm of Andrea. Caught her hand. She looked at him with question.

"I'd much rather you check on me," he said.

She smiled.

"I will," she said. "Later. For now? I have other patients to attend to, and resting will be best for you right now."

"What'd you say I had?" He asked. "Makes it so I don't—remember nothing?"

"Amnesia," she said. "And with any luck? It will pass soon. You're out of the danger zone. You can sleep—we're keeping a close watch on things. You're in good hands."

He squeezed the hand he was still holding and hummed.

"I believe that," he commented.

She pulled her hand loose, but she didn't look nearly as offended as she might pretend she was.

"Dr. Andrea," Merle said. "Can you dream with amnesia?"

Andrea stared at him like she wasn't sure what to say for a moment. Finally she spoke.

"I've never had it," she admitted. "But—I believe you can."

He smiled to himself.

"Good," he said. "Maybe—I'ma dream about you. And when I wake up? I'ma remember—that'cha said you was gonna let me buy you something to eat."

She laughed and excused herself from the room then, her laughter trailing behind her as she went and lingering a moment with the throbbing in Merle's head.

His memory might return. Everything he'd ever been. Every hope for what he might be. It might all return. But, at the moment, he was more hopeful that she'd return. At the moment? He'd rather know her than himself—he wasn't sure, but he felt he might like her a hell of a lot better than he liked himself at any rate.


End file.
